Live The Dream
by HousePiglet
Summary: In the aftermath of Amber's death, House worries about whether his relationship with Wilson will ever recover.


"You're not getting them back."

The bartender raised the keys in what looked a lot to House like a two-fingered salute and then strolled across to the cash register, where he dropped them into the drawer. For a moment House thought about arguing, but he picked up his cell phone instead and flipped it open. The cell was dead, though, and with a grimace he slapped it onto the bar and yelled across to the bartender.

"Hey! You take my keys, you gotta gimme a phone call."

An expression suggestive of a long familiarity with obnoxious drunks appeared on the man's face, and a moment later he reached for the phone and slapped it into House's palm. House dialed a number and leaned into the bar, the phone pressed closely to his ear. As the phone rang, a blue-clad figure at the side of the room straightened against the wall and spoke.

"Why are you calling?"

House looked up quickly and met the man's eyes, but only for a moment. He frowned, then, his gaze dropping to the bar, and further seconds passed before he answered. "Because we need to talk." The man began to ask another question, but at that point the answer phone kicked in and House started to speak.

"I'm at the bar on Third and North, and _Cave Man_ here..."--House jerked his head towards the bartender, who was now polishing a glass---"...has my keys. I need you to pick me up. I'd call Wilson but he'd need your permission to go out... and anyway he's working tonight." House ended the call and dropped the phone onto the bar. Then he turned back to the bartender. "Hey!" he called, pointing towards the phone, and the bartender turned to look at him. "Need another round here."

As the bartender added a fresh glass to the line in front of House and filled it, the man beside the wall spoke again. "So what do you want to talk to her about?"

House already knew the answer to that question, but it wasn't one he planned to share with his interrogator. Since Wilson and Amber had revealed their unexpected alliance, House had become uncomfortably aware of an increasingly large Wilson-shaped hole in his life. At first he'd thought the relationship wouldn't last, but as the months had gone by, and Wilson had taken ever-larger steps to consolidate his connection with Amber, House had been increasingly dismayed to discover how much he cared about the loss.

He'd tried ridicule, intimidation and even recruitment to the cause with Wilson, Amber and Cuddy, but none of his ploys had achieved anything, and when he'd finally reached the conclusion that Amber's motives were as pure as any that she was capable of harboring he'd begun to taste defeat. Wilson hadn't disappeared _yet_ from House's life, but what had begun as a mere and remote possibility had lately begun to feel inevitable: a new job for Amber in another part of the country; an ultimatum for Wilson about House's unwelcome presence in Amber's life... House had devoted more time than he was comfortable admitting to consideration of his options, but months of broken sleep, weeks of missed lunches and--finally--six glasses of neat Scotch had convinced him that the time had come to bring matters to a head.

That wasn't information he was willing to reveal, though, and so he merely raised the glass to his lips and tipped the contents quickly down his throat before replying. "You tell me. You were always the man with all the answers."

-- ----- --

Thirty minutes later House was finishing his seventh Scotch when he sensed movement at his back and heard somebody slip into the space next to his. He swiveled on his seat, and his eyes widened at the sight of Wilson placing his cell phone and car keys on the bar.

"Hey," said Wilson, before House could speak. He settled onto a stool, and surveyed the line of empty glasses. Then he raised his eyebrows and shot House a wry grin. "Well I see you've been enjoying yourself."

"There was nobody else around for me to enjoy," House shot back, automatically. "Anyway," he continued. "what are _you_ doing here?" He spoke more slowly now, momentarily confused by Wilson's unexpected appearance. "I called Amber, not you. You're supposed to be working."

Wilson nodded. "Amber has the flu, House. She's home in bed. She called me at the hospital when she got your message."

Wilson sat back then, and surveyed House more closely. "What're you doing here at this time, anyway? Isn't it a little early, even for you? What is it?" He glanced down at his watch, and then back to House via the row of glasses. "Six thirty? What's going on?"

House immediately schooled his features into a carefully blank expression, and turned towards the bartender. "Yo! Genius!" The bartender put down the glass he'd been polishing, and turned to face House. "I need another drink here, and bring one for what _passes_ for my _best friend_ these days." He stuck out his chin in a mock pout as he finished the sentence and swung back towards Wilson with a leer, leaning towards him confidentially and adopting a sympathetic tone. "Oh, right! I forgot. Doesn't Amber have you on Cosmos now?" He leaned back then, and winked. "Or does she allow you to choose your own drinks when she lets you out? You know -- like she lets you choose beds, and maybe even the color of your pants in the morning...?"

As House's words trailed off the beginnings of a frown appeared on Wilson's face, and he placed his hands on the bar and pushed himself back off the stool. "Cancel that," he called to the bartender. "We're leaving." Then he turned towards House. "Come on," he said, reaching for House's cane, and beginning to gather his keys and phone together. "Brown's covering for me. As soon as I've dropped you off I want to get home and check on Amber."

"Oh, Amber, Amber, Amber, Amber!" House rolled his head from side to side, mockingly, as he almost sang the words. "Come on, Wilson. Grow some balls, will you!"

House reached for his drink, and as he sipped it he gazed at Wilson. Wilson was checking his watch again, and quite suddenly it occurred to House that he was already too late: the Wilson with whom he'd shared most of what had meant anything to him throughout much of his adult life was already gone, and only this shell remained.

Making a decision, House put down his drink and leaned forwards, grabbing his cane from Wilson's hand and setting it back against the bar. Then he swung to the left again. "_Don't_ cancel that," he shouted to the bartender. "In fact, make mine a double, and Barbie here'll have a beer. That's if his girlfriend will let him, of course." House picked up his cell phone, then, and offered it to Wilson, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head on one side. "Wanna call Ken and check if it's okay?"

Wilson ignored the phone, but he stumbled slightly as House yanked the cane from his hand, and a flush rose quickly up his neck and began to spread across his face. His expression settled into one of grim immobility, and he took hold of House's arm and attempted to prise him off the stool. "I have no idea what your problem is, House, but I don't have time for this now. Stop behaving like an ass, and let's go."

Just as suddenly as he'd grabbed the cane, House rose from his stool and shook Wilson's hand roughly away. "Hey, no _touching_, Jimmy. We don't _touch_, remember? For us to _touch_ we'd actually have to be _friends_, and if we were _friends_ we'd still be eating lunch together, watching Cuddy's ass, having a beer, maybe playing a round of cards... I wouldn't have to go ten rounds with your _girlfriend_ every time I want to speak to you after hours." House stepped right up to Wilson as he spoke. "And you wouldn't be whining about getting straight home to _Amber_ the first evening we've spent time together outside the hospital in over a month." He paused for a second, but then he went on. "A month and a half, actually. Not that I've been counting or anything."

By now House was only inches away, and he leaned forwards into Wilson's face in order to finish his speech. "You say you don't know what my problem is?" He raised his voice, and began to poke Wilson hard in the chest to emphasize his words. "Well that's because you've been living with Amber's fist clamped around your genitals for the last 3 months. _You're_ the one who has the problem, but you made your problem _my_ problem. Well guess what, Wilson. I don't _have_ a problem any more. Go back home to your _girlfriend_ and ask her to let you mop her fevered brow. I'm sure she'll be happy to oblige. But don't come crying to me when she chews you up and spits you out."

By now the flush had spread all the way to Wilson's hair line, and as House continued to poke him Wilson's fingers began to curl, and he took a step backwards. "Don't push it, House. I've had just about enough..."

But House didn't let him finish. "You've had enough? Well what are you going to _do_ about it, _Jimmy_? Or do you need to ring your _girlfriend_ and get her to come over and do it for you? Drop the act, Wilson. You're a coward! You're only with Amber because she has the guts to do the things you've always been too scared to do. That's why you've been hanging around me for years. You _enjoy_ what we both do, but with Amber you get sex on the side."

With that House shoved Wilson hard in the chest with both hands. Wilson staggered backwards, and House snorted derisively as a look of wide-eyed incredulity appeared on Wilson's face. Wilson regained his footing, but House pushed him back again. "Come on, Wilson! Admit it! You're a fake and a coward. Come on! Admit it! _Admit it! Admit it! Admit it!_"

House snorted again, and he was turning back to his stool and reaching for his drink when Wilson's fist struck him hard behind the ear, and--caught off balance--he fell forwards onto the bar, knocking the neat line of glasses sideways and sending a few of them tumbling onto the floor.

House pushed himself up and turned back towards Wilson, noting as he did that the hum of bar-room conversation had now ceased. Wilson's eyes were blazing, and his left arm was swinging loosely at his side. Wilson's lips were moving too, but House's head was still spinning from the blow, and it took his brain a few seconds to catch up.

"You self-centered bastard!" he eventually heard. "I've spent 3 years living in a hotel room while you showed no sign of giving any kind of a shit, and now that I'm happy for the first time that I can _remember_ all you can do is bitch and moan about Amber. Well if that's your definition of _friendship_, House, then maybe I'm better off without it. See if you can find some other idiot to drive you home."

As Wilson finished speaking and stepped forwards to pick up his keys House glimpsed a movement at the side of the room, and as he glanced across he saw the man in blue shift beside the wall and open his mouth to speak. House couldn't meet his eye, though, and he knew he didn't want to hear the words, and so he turned quickly back to Wilson at the bar.

Unfortunately, as Wilson's fingers closed on his keys his foot landed on one of the fallen shot glasses and his ankle rolled, sending him sprawling into House. House's fingers closed on Wilson's arms, but as he struggled to regain his balance he heard a rough voice shout, "Hey!" beside him, and suddenly he was dragged forwards as a thick-set man stepped out of the crowd, yanked Wilson away and threw him roughly against the bar. "He's a fucking cripple," the man yelled at Wilson. "Find someone else to pick on."

Wilson's knees had buckled as he'd hit the bar, but as House stared he straightened himself up, wincing a little as he began to raise his hands in what looked to House like a gesture of surrender. It struck House then that, with his usual facility for easing the difficult moment along, Wilson was about to diffuse all the tension in the bar, and he was suddenly afraid that all his efforts might have been in vain. For the third time House saw movement at the side of the room, but again he turned away and now he spun towards his protector instead. "Hey, watch him!" House shouted, rolling his eyes and gesturing towards Wilson's left hand. "He's got a fist full of keys."

From his position a few feet away House watched, transfixed, as the redneck and two of his friends piled onto Wilson. One man grabbed Wilson by the arm and drove his left fist down hard against the bar, and as Wilson dropped his keys and yelped in pain another man slammed a fist into Wilson's face, while the third aimed a flying kick towards his ribs. As dual blows struck him simultaneously Wilson dropped to the floor like a stone, and stayed there, wheezing. The three men hovered over him, uncertainly, but making no further move, and House was just beginning to think about stepping forwards to check on Wilson when the bartender appeared at the front of the bar and pushed the three men aside.

"You three leave now," he growled, and began to bend down to where Wilson lay. Then he stopped as though remembering something, and looked up at House. "You too," he said. "Get out. You caused this crap."

Wilson's attackers melted quickly away but House limped towards the bar, and--wincing a little as his bad leg took the strain--knelt to look Wilson over. The bartender glared across at him. "I just told you to leave. Are you going or do I have to call the cops?"

"Oh, relax," House said, reaching for Wilson's shoulder. "I may be an ass but you can trust me: I'm a _doctor-shaped_ ass." The bartender gave House a long stare, but said nothing more as House took hold of Wilson's shoulder and shook it lightly. "Hey! Wilson!" he said. "Are you still alive in there?"

Wilson was curled tightly in a ball, but as he felt House's hand on his shoulder he unfolded his arms and pressed both hands against the floor to push himself up. As his left hand took the weight of his body he emitted a small noise, and dropped back down. A moment later he began again, his left hand now pressed protectively against his ribs, and as he leaned back against the bar he shook House's hand away from his shoulder.

Wilson's face was bloody, and House reached forwards to try to determine the source of the bleeding. Wilson pushed him away again, though. "You _jerk_," he said, his breath hitching as he spoke. "Don't _touch_ me." He raised his right hand to the bridge of his nose and winced, and then he reached down and pushed the hand into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. As he pressed it to his face he continued. "Do you feel better now? You know, you're _wrong_, House. Amber's not the problem. Your problem is that you spread misery everywhere you go because you can't _feel_ anything else. I should have left you alone at the bar. Well it's over now, House. Congratulations." He lowered the handkerchief, and shook his head slowly from side to side as he inspected the blood. "We're not friends any more. I'm not sure we ever were."

Wilson turned his head towards the bartender, acknowledging his presence for the first time. "Can you give me a hand to get up?" he asked. The bartender stood and heaved Wilson to his feet, and Wilson winced again as he reached for his keys on the bar.

"You're not going to drive like that?" House asked in a low voice, unable now to meet Wilson's gaze but unwilling to back away entirely.

"I _can't_ drive now, House. Those morons broke my hand!" Wilson lifted his right arm towards the back of his neck, but with the wrong hand the familiar gesture looked as unnatural to House as the strained expression on Wilson's pale face. "I'll take the bus. You..." Wilson hesitated, and then spoke again. "You should call Cuddy and get her to drive you home."

As the door closed behind Wilson, House turned slowly towards the figure still leaning against the wall at the side of the room.

"Are you going after him?" the figure asked.

House reached for his drink and took a gulp, frowning as the whisky burned a trail down his throat and deep into his chest. He felt his hand shake as he lowered the glass, but he closed his mind to the pain and went on. "Were you tuned to a different channel there?" he asked. Then he raised the glass again and finished the drink in one. "That was the series finale. Greg and Jimmy break up, and I ride off into the sunset alone."

The man spoke again, though. "And that's what you really want?" House heard doubt in his voice, and as he listened it struck him that here was a man who'd spent a lifetime in command; secure in the belief that he was always right.

"Isn't it a bit late for you to be offering me advice about relationships?" House asked. "And unless I'm missing something, you weren't exactly hitting the high scores in that game yourself."

"I always cared about you, Greg," the man replied. "It's not my fault you were too stubborn to see it. That's always been your problem, though. You spend so much time whining about what you've lost that you can't see what you have left." The man nodded towards the door. "Well it's up to you now. Nobody's forcing you to make the same mistake again."

House waved to the bartender and gestured towards the phone. When the man placed it on the bar in front of him House dialed in a number, and then turned back to face the man beside the wall. "Fuck you, Dad," he said, as Cuddy's line began to ring into his ear. "It'll be a cold day in Hell before you have anything to teach me about love."

-- ----- --

That was the point at which House normally woke, and on those occasions he'd sometimes found himself crying. When he woke now he was whimpering, and as his eyes jerked wetly open he found himself stretched rigid and half frozen on top of his bedclothes, bathed in a clammy sweat. He turned on the bedside light and took a deep, slow, juddering breath. Then he reached for the cover, which had slipped from the bed to the ground, and pulled it up and over his chest.

Bad as he felt now, House was grateful that his dream had not continued beyond the bar into Phase 2. Occasionally his subconscious dragged him out onto the side walk and forced him to re-live the journey on the bus. He'd be forced to watch as Amber dropped into a seat beside him and reached into her bag for the Amantadine capsules, while a separate part of his mind tracked the route taken by the garbage truck towards the point of collision. After that he'd live again the moment of impact and the struggle to reach Amber--the shock and the sounds and the horror of the thing--and he'd experience the sensation of flight that came after the second impact, and the sickening crack of his skull as it made contact with the window. He'd feel Amber's fingers wrenched once again from his own, and the chill of her skin against his as he reached for her scarf to bandage her leg.

House closed his eyes for a moment, and then shook his head to try to clear the memories away. They were too firmly embedded, though, and so moments later he threw off the bedclothes and did what he always did on waking from the dream. He pulled on his jeans and a discarded T-shirt, and then he got onto his bike and rode over to Wilson's apartment.

It was a cold night, and House raised his collar and wrapped his arms around his chest as he waited for Wilson to answer his knock. He'd begun to wonder whether Wilson could possibly be out when eventually he heard the lock turn, and then light spilled out of the apartment, illuminating the corridor, as Amber opened the door.

House stared, and Amber's face remained expressionless as she stared back at him. Eventually House found his voice. "Amber... Where's Wilson? I thought... How come you're..." He trailed off into silence, then, his eyes searching the shadows behind Amber for any sign of movement.

Amber ducked her chin and raised a hand to her forehead in what looked to House like a familiar gesture, though strangely out of place. "House..." She paused for a moment, and ran her fingers through her hair. "We've been through this so many times. I don't know how to make you understand. Wilson's dead. He's gone, House." She shivered then, and pulled Wilson's sweatshirt closer to her body. Then she stepped forwards and took hold of House's arm. "Come in. I'll..."

House flung a hand towards the doorway as he began his slide towards the floor. As he fell he saw that Amber's lips were still moving, but he couldn't make out the words above the sound of a high-pitched keening that seemed to be coming from all around him. That and the sound of rushing blood, as it pounded in his ears.

-- ----- --

When House jerked awake for the second time his heart was beating so hard that it was almost painful. It was some moments before he realized that he was balanced on his elbows, his hands and forearms splayed out against the bed. More moments passed before it occurred to him to open his eyes, and at that stage he understood where he was. The window was open, and he could just make out the insistent whine of a police siren retreating along the road outside his apartment.

It was 5 months since the accident, but the dreams were no less frequent now than when they'd begun. At first he'd tried to ignore them, but desperation had finally forced him into a late night visit to Cuddy's house.

Cuddy had received him without comment, and if she'd been surprised to see him then she'd made no outward sign. She'd suggested counseling first. He'd known that she would, and she'd known that he'd refuse it, and so when he had she'd written him a script for Ativan and pressed it into his hand. "Take it House," she'd said, staring up at him with a complex expression that had somehow managed to combine concern with exasperation, as well as a hint of the deep-seated affection House knew she felt for him. When House had screwed the paper into a ball and tossed it onto the carpet she'd said, "Don't be an idiot, for once in your life. You're not super-human, House, despite what you seem to believe. What you're experiencing is a perfectly natural reaction to the crash."

And it was natural for Cuddy to have jumped to that conclusion, House reflected, as he turned on the bedroom light and reached for his Vicodin. He hadn't told her that the dreams hadn't started until Wilson had announced his intention to leave, and he hadn't revealed that it was Wilson, rather than Amber, whose death was currently playing twice nightly on the psychic movie screen in House's head. Certainly he'd said nothing about the part he'd played in driving dream-Wilson onto the bus.

After swallowing his Vicodin House heaved himself up against the headboard and tucked a pillow under his leg. Relations with Wilson had improved since the trip to Lexington for his father's funeral, but they were still a long way from what had for many years passed for normal between them. It was only after Wilson's resignation that House had come to realize the extent to which he valued that strange normality. He'd been forced to acknowledge that the events surrounding Tritter's unwelcome intrusion into their lives had left baggage that neither he nor Wilson had attempted to unpack, and a series of more recent events had apparently done further lasting damage.

House suddenly felt an intense desire to see Wilson. He knew that Wilson was almost certainly safe at home in the bed he'd once shared with Amber, but in the aftermath of the dream he always felt this way. Up to now he'd always resisted the urge. He wasn't sure whether he was simply unwilling to submit to an irrational desire for reassurance, or whether he was afraid of what such a visit might inadvertently reveal to Wilson.

The appearance of his father in the dream was a new development, though, and House closed his eyes and erected a mental white board as he attempted to unravel the meaning of it all.

-- ----- --

An hour later House stood at Wilson's doorway, tapping his cane repeatedly against the door. Several minutes passed before he heard movement inside the apartment, and a few seconds later he heard the lock begin to turn.

House had known that it would be Wilson standing before him when the door eventually opened, but still his stomach lurched uncomfortably when Wilson finally appeared. He was rubbing his eyes, and he looked surprised to find House on the doorstep.

"House. What's going on?" he yawned. "It's..." He glanced down at his wrist, and when he looked back up the note of enquiry in his voice was mirrored in the expression on his face. "...four thirty. Isn't this a little early even for you?"

House's gaze dropped to his feet for a moment. He was unwilling to reveal the truth behind his visit, but unsure about how to excuse it in terms that Wilson might accept.

"I need to use your couch," he said eventually. "Burst water main. My apartment's flooded out."

Wilson stared, and for a moment it looked to House as though he was going to seek further and better particulars. Possibly something Wilson detected in House's expression caused him to change his mind, though, because instead he stepped back and extended his left arm towards the couch.

"It's all yours, House," he said. "Knock yourself out. For tonight, at least," he added quickly, as House stepped inside.

Wilson disappeared into the bedroom, and when he reappeared he was carrying blankets and a pillow. He dropped them onto the couch and then raised a hand to the back of his neck and gazed across at House. Again it looked to House as though he was going to ask for further information, but if that had been Wilson's intention then again he changed his mind. Instead he turned back to the bedroom. "I'm going to bed, House. I have a meeting at eight thirty with the Funding Committee. Sleep well," he added, as he made his way back to his room.

As Wilson closed the bedroom door behind him House dropped his backpack to the floor and took a seat on the couch. His heart was beating rapidly again, and after a moment's reflection he lowered his head between his knees, and began to breath slowly and deeply. Eventually his heart rate slowed, and so he sat up, lifted his legs onto the cushions and draped the blankets across his chest.

Wilson's reticence had been a little out of character, but House was willing to concede that he might simply have been tired. Wilson hadn't turned him away, though, and House was relieved and grateful for that. He wasn't yet sure what might emerge during their conversation in the morning, but he was ready to cross that bridge when he came to it. Whatever happened, he was pretty sure he'd done the right thing.

A few minutes later House reached across to the lamp and turned it off. He pulled the blankets up and over his shoulders, then, and eased himself onto his side. When a minute or so after that he closed his eyes and settled down to sleep it struck him that for the first time in several months he was no longer afraid to dream.

The End.


End file.
